


Those moments in-between

by Likealichen (Khalehla), likealichen



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Domestic Fluff, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-04
Updated: 2018-02-11
Packaged: 2018-09-28 06:01:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10075433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Khalehla/pseuds/Likealichen, https://archiveofourown.org/users/likealichen/pseuds/likealichen
Summary: Enjolras, Grantaire, and all those moments in between





	1. Maman

When both his and Enjolras’s phone ping simultaneously signalling a text message, Grantaire isn’t even surprised that it’s from Enjolras’s mother, letting them know that she was on her way to see them.  
  
“How does she do that?” he asks Enjolras as they wait for the water to boil. “It’s like she has a tracker on you or something - she always knows when you’re in trouble.”   
  
Enjolras pinches the bridge of his nose, mindful of the tiny band-aid Joly had put on earlier. “I don’t really have the energy to deal with her right now; do you think she’ll go away if we don’t answer the doorbell?”   
  
Grantaire smiles, knowing Enjolras is only half-serious. “You and I both know she won’t fall for that.” He drops a tea bag, scoops some honey and squeezes some lemon into one of the mugs, knowing how sore Enjolras’s throat must be, first from talking all day at the protest, then later having to yell at the police. Once the water’s finished boiling, he pours the water and takes the mug to where his boyfriend is now seated at the counter. “Drink this; it’ll give you energy to face her. She’s just worried you know.”   
  
Enjolras sighs, but dutifully drinks his tea. It’s only a matter of minutes before the buzzer rings signalling the arrival of Enjolras’s mom.   
  
She comes in, drops an absent-minded kiss to Grantaire’s cheek, murmuring “hello Jacques” before turning to her son.   
  
Maree takes Enjolras’s chin in her hand, tilting his head this way and that, tutting at the butterfly tape on his forehead and scowling at the bruise blossoming on his cheek.   
  
“Really darling,” she sighs, finally releasing him, kissing him on both cheeks, then on the forehead for good measure. “I thought we agreed that you wouldn’t get involved anymore once it’s clear things wouldn’t stay non-violent?”   
  
“You and Papa agreed to that,” Enjolras says, “and I just didn’t disagree with you. You can’t really expect me to hide away while people are getting hurt at my own protest.”   
  
“There’s a difference with hiding away and taking one’s self sensibly away from danger, Michel,” she counters, and Grantaire wants to cheer because he’d pointed the same thing out to Enjolras countless times before.   
  
“I wasn’t in any real danger, Maman,” Enjolras insists somewhat  stubbornly.   
  
Maree just sighs again and turns to Grantaire. “I’ve obviously hit the wall that is my son’s inability to muster any self-preservation. It’s good to see you at least managed to come out of this unscathed.”   
  
“I try not to pick fights that I’m sure I can’t win, ma’am,” Grantaire replies. “One of us has to be able to drag the other out more or less in one piece.”   
  
“I’m so glad. Do promise me you’ll try and rub some of your sensibility off on Michel?”   
  
Grantaire grins, ignoring Enjolras’s snort . “Yes ma’am.”   
  
Maree gives Grantaire a look. “Jacques, how many times have I told you that my name is Maree? If you refuse to call me that, then you may call me Maman as well.” Grantaire has the grace to blush, and he will never not be in awe of how much she can convey with just a slight lift of her eyebrow. “When you call me “ma’am” it makes me sound like the Queen of England - and we all know how Michel feels about the _monarchy_.”


	2. Monopoly

Enjolras _hates_ Monopoly.

Enjolras never passes up the chance to remind everyone that the original Monopoly game was invented to teach people about income inequality and that playing the game should remind everyone of the evils of capitalist greed.

That doesn’t mean though that Enjolras isn’t _good_ at the game. Any other game and Enjolras is willing to indulge his friends and get into the spirit of competitiveness, and should he lose, well, there’s always next time. But Monopoly. Once the board game comes out, blond, beautiful, angelic Enjolras transforms into the righteous fury of an avenging god (and Grantaire can’t help but stare even as his fingers itch for something to capture the vision before him). Enjolras then embarks on a mission, and he knows who his deadly opponents are. 

Utilities? First to go if he can help it. Then the blocks of real estate on each side. Enjolras knows that Cosette’s primary strategy is control the majority of at least one side before moving on, but if he can buy up the railroads and utilities first, he’ll disrupt her plan. 

Jehan, on the hand, prefers more underhanded tactics of subversion, content to sit back and disrupt any plans of controlling whole blocks by anyone by buying up the last property. It’s the long game, but it usually takes a while for people to realise how much they are in Jehan’s mercy; and that’s when the normally placid poet shows his fangs, forcing others to negotiate on his own terms and eventually managing to trade those useless looking solo properties for whole blocks at a time. Enjolras admires this plan, and usually finds that it’s the hardest to counter.

Everyone else just sits back and enjoys the game until they inevitably lose the shirts on their backs; they then go off for pizza and another, less vicious game to play.

As good as Jehan and Cosette are though, Enjolras wins 3 out of 5 games, because he has studied their systems, found the only weaknesses in their strategies, and used all his considerable determination to counter them. At the end, he ends up owning ¾ of the board, all the utilities, and most of the railroads; he then promptly conjures up a plan to re-distribute the wealth, provide tax cuts to small businesses and lower income earners, and make utilities as close to free as possible. He is Enjolras, and even if it’s only this fantasy board game world, he will fight injustices and right the wrongs of the world. It’s the least he can do.

And Grantaire. He scoffs lightly at Enjolras’s idealism, pointing out that it would never work in real life because hello, isn’t that what Monopoly is trying to show us, that man’s inherent nature is the tendency towards greed? So he is contrarian as usual, but he’s just being realistic. 

Enjolras understands this, nods and listens to Grantaire’s rhetoric. 

Grantaire knows the look on Enjolras’s face, sees that despite the pinched mouth and flaring nostrils, their fearless leader will store all of Grantaire’s verbiage and use it to form counters just in case someone else in the future questions his idealism, because not even this bleak cynicism can stop Enjolras from trying to make the world a better place despite the odds against him.  

Enjolras has never looked more beautiful than in moments like this and Grantaire falls in love a little more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A [tumblr repost.](http://likealichen.tumblr.com/post/158166070735/monopoly)


	3. Believe

Enjolras knows that he is objectively good looking. It’s not like there’s any point in having false modesty since he had literally spent his entire life listening to people tell him (or his Maman and Papa) that he is beautiful. It doesn’t bother him either way; unless of course people mistook the delicate cheekbones and long eyelashes with fragility and weakness, and in those moments Enjolras was more than happy to demonstrate just how sharp his tongue could be, or the strength in his left hook. 

Enjolras is also more than happy to use his good looks to his advantage; or, more accurately, he'd learnt to, with the help of the patience of Combeferre and several passionate speeches by Courfeyrac trying to convince him that although people came for his looks, they stayed for his words. Because of this, he’d also learnt to seek out opinions on what he should wear on the day of a protest or a forum or a conference, and if one of his friends suggested a particular outfit for an event, more often than not, he would show up wearing their recommendations.

That’s not to say that Enjolras understood why people made such a fuss about his appearance. Yes he understood that it is nice to look at pretty things, but surely a person’s looks couldn’t hold that much influence on people’s decision making, could it?

He mentioned this once, the night before a gathering at the local queer space at the university. “I somehow doubt there’ll be any media there, surely me going as frumpy and boring is more appropriate? I want to be comfortable, not intimidating.”

Cosette had given him an amused look. “Enjolras, you couldn’t pull off “frumpy and boring” even at 4am when you’ve had too much coffee and and hardly any sleep.”

At Joly’s recommendation, Enjolras had worn comfortable jeans, a plain white button down and a navy blue woolen pullover. He’d been complimented twice on his outfit and was rather surreptitiously told how much of a comfort it was that Enjolras not only spoke well and eloquently, but that he looked reliable and down-to-earth. Since then, he’d taken much more care with his appearances in public.

That’s not to say that he become blasé about his looks and started relying heavily on them; no of course not. Instead, he’d learnt to use it as a small artillery in his arsenal and deployed it as needed, adjusting his own perceptions to accommodate those he was trying to reach. You see the things is, even though he knew others found him good looking, he himself didn’t consider his features particularly appealing. He was too pretty, too refined for his own tastes, and much to his chagrin, all the working out with Bahorel didn’t necessarily mean he bulked up on muscle like he wanted to; although he’d learnt to accept the compliments, he didn’t necessarily agree though.

But moments like this, where Grantaire, with his silken dark hair, broad shoulders and strong jaw, looked at him with wonder, eyes raking over Enjolras face like a blind man seeing a sunset for the first time, running his thumb delicately over Enjolras’s cheekbones; times like this when Grantaire looked like he’d never seen anything more beautiful in his life, well Enjolras, he would duck his chin and feel the blush slowly run up his neck. Times like this he could see what Grantaire saw, and he believed.


	4. Silk

Enjolras doesn’t know why, has no basis for this belief, but he’d always thought that running his fingers through Grantaire’s hair would be like getting tangled in long blades of grass, or unknotting yarns of wool. He’s not prepared for it to feel like silk ribbons and strands of fine cotton threads.

It’s an accident the first time it happens. Grantaire is running late and Enjolras is irritated because Grantaire was bringing the posters and they’d have such little time left before the fete happened and their stall was looking decidedly bare. He’s just about ready to breathe fire, but when Grantaire comes running up, arms full of posters and boxes of pamphlets and complaining about everything from the printers printing the wrong size, to the metro stopping inexplicably for 20 whole minutes, to the security who refused to let him through because he wasn’t wearing his events badge, Enjolras decides to let it pass and takes as much as he can from Grantaire’s arms. Courfeyrac and Cosette take a handful and position themselves while Grantaire arranges the rest on the stall, blowing his hair away from his face and with irritate puffs, muttering to himself all the while.

Enjolras doesn’t even think about it when reaches out to brush he errant lock over Grantaire’s ear, and for a moment he’s caught in the wonder of how the artist’s hair is as soft as his skin. It isn’t until he notices a few seconds later that Grantaire is standing still as a statue looking at him in wide-eyed surprise that he realises what he’s done. Enjolras pulls back, embarrassed by his actions, hastily turning his back to the stand and quickly walking over to Marius who’s having a rather heated argument with another stall who’d hung their large banner over the tree and thereby half-blocking Les Amis’ stand.

The second time it happens they are both at Cosette’s place learning how to make desserts. Enjolras has just put his cake tin in the over and Grantaire is carefully pouring his mixture into the half dozen creme brûlée pots. There are strands of his hair escaping from his headband and Grantaire has his head tilted awkwardly to the side so he can actually see what he’s doing; Enjolras takes the spare bobby pin he always has tucked in the loop of his jeans and pins Grantaire’s hair back for him.

Grantaire freezes, then gives him a shy small, murmuring “thanks” before moving on to the next pot. If Enjolras’ face heats up and it’s not because of the temperature in the kitchen, no-one needs to know.

The third, fourth, fifth and upteenth times happen almost regularly after that, Enjolras finding ways - sometimes unconsciously and sometimes deliberately - to help with Grantaire’s errant hair. He starts bringing spare hair ties and bobby pins because no matter how carefully Grantaire puts his hair up before going to work at the dance school he teaches at, by the time he gets to the Amis meetings, those curls have escaped and it’s a distraction that Enjolras is finding harder and harder to ignore.

He stops counting these moments on the night of Grantaire’s students’ recital. They’re standing at the refreshment stand after most of the family and friends of the kids have gone and Grantaire has a chance to breathe again; his hair has naturally fallen out of its ponytail and Enjolras automatically reaches out to fix it. This time, however, rather than keep still then shyly thank him afterwards, Grantaire turns his head and leans into Enjolras’ palm. It’s Enjolras’ turn to freeze, heart hammering in his chest, hand still resting on Grantaire’s cheek.

“Thank you for helping tonight,” Grantaire says softly, eyes bright.

Enjolras snorts softly. He’d been the host of the night, because if there was one thing he was good at, it was standing in front of the microphone and getting people’s attention. “I like helping you,” he replies just as softly, finally tucking that stray curl behind Grantaire’s ear. “I like helping a lot.”

Grantaire looks stunned for a moment, then a flush covers his cheeks and the smile he gives Enjolras is no longer shy but as bright as his eyes and full of suppressed joy.

 _Correction,_ Enjolras thinks to himself, _I just like_ you _, period._

**Author's Note:**

> Some of these are reposts from [my tumblr.](likealichen.tumblr.com)


End file.
